A World of Solutions
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: Alfred F. Jones, captain of the Enterprise, has a problem. His problem is not, in fact, his sexuality, because he is definitely not gay. His problem is simply the medical officer that made him start questioning it. And if Arthur Kirkland doesn't plan on taking responsibility, he had another thing coming. [StarTrek Crossover; T for Language]


Captain Alfred F. Jones has a problem.

It's October of 2258 and the gay rights' movement came to a head more than a century ago and was globally ratified decades ago. That, however, is not Captain Jones' problem.

It's the complete asshole who made him start thinking about it.

* * *

Two days ago he was perfectly fine, save for the trouble on-deck with those damn new-recruits that always seemed to cause trouble. Two days ago, the only stress in his life was the threat of a Klingon attack like had happened to so many other ships in this part of space, which didn't count for much since he'd been more stressed about smaller things than that, like why the hell there weren't more hamburger patties on-board and why on earth they always seemed to be out when he dropped by but five minutes later he'd see someone eating one—

The point was that Jones F. Jones had priorities in life much higher than to question his sexuality or the sexuality of others. In college he had, of course, been victim of experimentation but that wasn't exactly out of the norm, especially since most practically had to if they wanted to pass sex-ed or that stupid sex-ed course on 'Expanding Your Horizons' by trying out just about everything in the book, with just about everyone in the book. Jones had taken those courses and decided that girls were a-okay in his book but it was probably worth noting that he didn't exactly continue having one-night-stands, and the ones he had weren't his idea.

He'd had his fun in college, and who cared if Arthur Kirkland had been his roommate and had seen about a third of the people on his list of one-night-stands, it wasn't his place to bring it up.

Even _if_ he was in charge of sickbay and even _if_ he had to specifically ask for previous sexual partners and determine their sex, race, nationality and the other fun stuff about categorization that came with international space travel—the point was, even if he had to do all those things, he definitely didn't have to be an asshole about it.

"Jones, don't pretend the list isn't longer than that," Kirkland said with a bored expression, raising one of those massive eyebrows as he continued to fill out the slip of paper for the monthly physical. "I was there for half of these, and I know for a fact that you eventually did that girl from your Physics class, whether you want to admit it or not." With his pen still poised to write, Kirkland glanced at him, looking as if he was about to reach the end of his patience. "Well?"

The captain in question just stared at the ground, cheeks maybe a bit redder than he normally liked to admit. After a brief hesitation he finally rattled off a longer list of names, occasionally peppering in descriptions for the ones he couldn't remember properly, since it was more the descriptions of possible aliens that were important to the survey.

"Are we done now?" Jones finally asked, sitting back and hooking his ankle over his opposite knee, a perfect figure-four as he tried to hurry his time spent in this particular chair. Bored, his eyes traveled over the various knickknacks that had been collected over the years, finally glancing up when Kirkland tapped his pen to the American's head, who merely replied with puppy eyes.

"We still have to do the male column," Kirkland snapped, evidently losing patience as well. "And stop looking at me like that. Do you honestly think I ever wanted to know how many people you slept with at this school? It's—it's absolutely repulsive."

Jones gave him a long look, thoroughly unimpressed. "Says the erotic ambassador. I know what books you keep under your bed, asshole." He paused, then hastily added, "And what do you mean the male column? You know I'm straight!"

"I also know that you've bedded guys before," Kirkland replied sharply, rolling his eyes. "It's the twenty-second century, Jones, don't act so repulsed. Besides, it isn't as if you didn't enjoy it if you continued coming back for more and then abruptly stopped after you started seeing more boys than girls—"

Sputtering and going redder in the face than before, Jones leaned forward with what must have been a squawk, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Don't make assumptions like that!" he ordered, hastily trying to get the medical officer to quiet down about it.

"I'll make all the assumptions I want, especially when the facts add up. That you're so defensive about it is further proof I'm right," Kirkland said with a sigh, repositioning his pen to hover over the other side of the paper. "Now. Names, please?"

* * *

Five hours later and Jones was determinedly not thinking about it—so determinedly not thinking about it, in fact, that after he'd asked Kiku to take over the command so he could have a drink to 'loosen up', Jones had immediately gone down and ordered the strongest thing on the menu.

Not to get drunk, of course—that would be irresponsible. It was simply to prove that his favorite drink, a Blue Hawaiian, was in fact too feminine for such a manly man, and that he was reevaluating his life choices by changing his drink-choice.

Approximately an hour later, after several shots of a mixture of vodka and whiskey and some energy drink he'd never been fond of, Jones was slumped over a table and quite close to drinking himself _under_ the table, as well.

He hadn't really recognized much at all by the time he was only half-conscious and his drink was finally taken away, but he definitely recognized felt it when someone reached around and slid their hand into his back pocket. Since his reflexes were so clearly slow, Jones had no choice but to allow it to happen, taking it to be a sexual sort of thing. The hand felt a bit too big to be a girl's, though, and he couldn't help but wonder whose it was. He sat up a little, definitely not to give the man behind him access or anything, since that would be preposterous—

"Hey. I'm gonna call someone to come pick you up. That alright, Captain?" the bartender asked, and Jones was suddenly aware that they hadn't been groping him but were instead fishing out his phone.

"Shuuuure thing, pal," Jones replied, too sloshed to stand up straight, much less speak entirely coherently. "Call Artie, tho', willya?"

"Kirkland?" the bar tender asked, sounding a little confused, though the alcohol diluted Jones's mind and maybe the other was just amused—it was hard to tell with that Spanish accent, anyways. "Why would you be calling Kirkland?"

"'E'sh my buddy, in't he?" Jones slurred, a drunken smile coming to rest on his face. "My roommate. 'snice. 'E's a medic, didjaknow?"

The Spaniard, name long since lost in Jones's drunken haze—_was it Fernandez or Carriedo, or both, and which one did he go by, the Spanish went with their mother's last name, or was it their father's, but which was it_—simply patted him on the back and pushed his drink far out of his reach. "I think it's time for you to go up to bed."

With that, he called Kirkland, who presumably picked up and started on his way, because lo and behold not ten minutes later, the British medic was within arm's reach of Jones. And, of course, he made full use of that arm's reach because one second Jones was lying across the table and the next he was being pulled roughly to his feet by the collar of his shirt.

"Why the _bloody hell_ did you decide to get drunk?" Kirkland snapped, and if Jones hadn't been dead drunk with booze on his own breath, he may have noticed that Kirkland didn't exactly smell entirely sober, either. "This is just—it's _irresponsible_, Jones, and you're leaving the captain's position in the hands of Kiku, tonight of all nights?! Maybe, pray tell, you should have considered that he and our translator friend would have liked to be alone together tonight. This is just inconsiderate, making me drag your sorry arse out of a bar because you're too inebriated to stand on your own—"

"Nice't shee you too," Jones said, evidently not noticing the heavy slur to his words, though admittedly Kirkland didn't sound quite as sharply coherent as he normally did. That sharp accent seemed to have been dulled down slightly, and Jones couldn't help but comment, "Always knew y'weren' posh. Soundsh… cock… what is it… where they drop the tea… cockney."

The fight didn't quite evaporate from Kirkland's heated demeanor but he seemed to calm down considerably, and Jones wasn't going to say anything against it, being too drunk for trying to try any tactics with the other. "I think you just need to lie down and sleep this off. Don't you?" he supplied, an edge to his tone even if he had backed off slightly.

"Are you going to escort him home?" the Spaniard asked, gently nudging the medic, who in turn nearly dropped Jones once he realized that they were not, in fact, alone. It was further proof that Kirkland was slightly inebriated as well, but Jones, being Jones and also being drunk, didn't notice at all. He did, however, get slightly disoriented at being nearly dropped, but he adjusted to the new position quite well, not seeming to mind at all that his face was now pressed into Kirkland's stomach.

Kirkland, however, did seem to mind, and once more he yanked Jones up by the collar of his shirt, rather difficult considering the Star Fleet uniform's high collar, though Jones had long since undone the top button. "Get off me, you git," the Brit snapped, pushing him back. He did, however, seem to recognize—all too late—that Jones wouldn't be able to catch himself. Jones threw out a hand, trying to grab hold of something on Kirkland, but aside from loosely patting the medic's front pockets he didn't appear to do much at all to right himself. Kirkland watched for a moment before finally recognizing that he'd have to catch the other and managed to grab hold of his captain's arm, though he hadn't quite expected the weight that came with it, and both tottered forward.

With a crash, the pair found themselves on the floor, Kirkland on top of Jones, and the American hit the ground first, head striking first. It seemed that the abuse to his poor head finally had caught up to him, and he quickly fell into a light doze, snoring even as his nose was pressed into Kirkland's shirt, catching the scent even in sleep.

A few moments later, Kirkland finally started to his feet, not bothering to pick up Jones for a few moments more, not until he noticed the other was asleep. "Lazy git," he muttered, giving a light kick to the American's side.

Jones just snorted, rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

Like far too many mornings on the Enterprise, Jones woke up in the Medical Bay, though fortunately he hadn't been strapped down and didn't appear to be hooked up to half a dozen tubes. However, he almost wished he was, since that would most likely mean that he would have woken without such a killer hangover. It wouldn't have killed Kirkland to hook him up to some fluids.

Which essentially meant that Kirkland wanted him to deal with a hangover.

Bastard.

Speaking of the cold-hearted bastard, Kirkland walked in a few minutes after Jones woke, and true to form he immediately yanked the curtains open, forcing Jones to deal with the pain of the sunlight forcibly entering his eyes.

"Wake up, you arse," Kirkland said almost as soon as he got to Jones's bed, lightly smacking him on the arm. "This isn't the academy. You're a _captain_—at least act like you have some shred of responsibility. There are enough people here that doubt you as it is."

"You one of 'em?" Jones managed, not quite opening his eyes, though light was filtering through below his eyelashes, and he could have sworn the image of Kirkland leaning over him, blocking out the worst of the migraine-inducing morning light. "Or have you finally given up on me?"

Kirkland huffed, picking up a bottle of something from the bedside table and pressing it into Jones's hands, the pressure just enough to force Jones to accept. "I've been with you since the academy. I'm not giving up on you that easily." And with that, he lightly smacked the captain on the side, prompting him to sit up. "Now drink. You're dehydrated, and if you want that hangover to end anytime soon, you need more fluid in you." Before Jones could interject, he hastily added, "And I do _not_ mean more alcohol, you git."

Chuckling, Jones sat up just enough so that he could tip the bottle back without spilling any on him. "'Been with me'?" he prompted, raising a brow at the medic. "You make it sound like we're, like. Together or something."

To his credit, Kirkland just rolled his eyes and jotted something down on that ever-present clipboard before he finally set it aside on the bedside table. "If you're feeling well enough to joke then you're feeling well enough to put your glasses on. You have duties to attend to, remember?" With that, he shuffled around the items on the table until he located the other's glasses, pressing them into Jones's hand until the other finally grasped them.

As if that wasn't incentive enough, Kirkland cleared his throat and made sure to add, "Our Japanese friend has been sitting in the captain's chair the whole night long while you fell into a drunken stupor. You're quite lucky no one's trying to punish you for such a thing."

"No need to guilt trip me or anything," Jones quipped, drinking half the bottle and setting it aside so he could slide his glasses on, squinting for a minute before his eyes finally adjusted. "Think I'm fit to get back in my chair?" he teased, taking a sip more of the water to ensure that he was hydrated enough to keep from keeling over, as Kirkland seemed to fear. Jones would have assumed the other a mother hen if Kirkland's medical attention hadn't saved all their skins more times than he could count—not that he could tell him that.

The medic in question watched with approval, giving a slight nod. "Anyways, I think it's time to get you back in your rightful place. God knows how you managed to get there in the first place," he muttered, the last part a bit quieter than the rest. "Finish that water and I'll take you back up."

"I don't need anyone to walk me," Jones replied, perhaps a bit scandalized. "I'm not your girlfriend, Limey, in case you've forgotten."

Kirkland considered him a moment, and by the smirk on his lips Jones could only assume he'd said something ridiculous. "How lovely that you assume a feminine position when discussing hypothetical gender roles for an imaginary relationship," the Brit quipped, leaning forward just enough to catch the surprised look on Jones's face. "Now drink up, _dear_. I'm sure you'll feel better once you're in your chair. God knows you start getting cranky when you don't get to act as the boss."

Jones sulkily finished off the water.

It was official—Arthur Kirkland, head of the medical bay, was a complete and utter bastard—

But then, Jones had always had a soft spot for assholes.

* * *

Five hours into his shift on-deck and Captain Jones was starting to wish that he was back up in his own room with a pillow and a blanket and some water—or preferably something to get him drunk and get him drunk quickly, so that this time he could drink water in-between shots so he wouldn't have a damn hangover _tomorrow_ morning.

However, he was on duty for the next foreseeable future, which meant that he'd be giving menial instructions and essentially being useless until there was a crisis. It was simply protocol to be on deck, and really, Kiku was there to so logically he should have been able to take some time off, but Hedervary shot him death glares every time he opened his mouth as if to even suggest that he take some more time off. Apparently she had something against captains being 'irresponsible' though why Jones was always considered to be so constantly blew his mind.

(There was really nothing so bad about wanting to have a good time. Really. So what if he enjoyed having nights with girls—and, admittedly, some boys—from all over the world. Maybe he had a thing for accents, sue him. But man was it hot to hear moans in all sorts of accents from all sorts of countries, from Canada to France to Italy to Germany to Belgium and Hungary and the Netherlands and Denmark and Turkey and Monaco and Mexico and, well, you get the picture. Jones enjoyed enjoying himself. And whether or not that included with other guys was absolutely no one's business. It wasn't like he wanted a relationship with any of them, geez—not that he was so fond of relationships with girls, either. But that totally didn't make him gay. Even if he'd never tried it just to see.)

However, Jones was nothing if not consistent, and it wasn't as if he could just surrender his seat to someone else, even if they weren't in any sort of dangerous territory. It would be far more irresponsible to give up his position because he was bored than because he wanted to be drunk—even if he technically wanted to be drunk right then, too, but his intentions were really no one's business.

The day simply didn't pass by long enough, and by the time a lunch break came by he seized the opportunity, rushing from the room and hurrying into his quarters.

His hangover left him feeling anything _but_ hungry, though, and he instead just floundered into bed, paying absolutely no heed to his uniform. It wasn't as if he paid much heed to anything though, not if everyone else's words were anything to go by, and while sometimes that was frustrating, right then it felt oddly liberating, and he chose in very clearly to pay no attention to authority—and hell, wasn't he the captain to begin with? Whose authority did he really have to go by, when he was captain? And damn it if he was going to take _advice_, he was the _captain_, by default he was supposed to know best—

And of course that was overthinking it, but somehow it felt quite nice to overthink it. He did it enough in everyday situations, why wouldn't he use it in private, when there was no one but himself to listen?

It was a lonely though, and oddly enough for just a second he missed being at StarFleet Academy.

For reasons he couldn't entirely figure out, right then he really missed Kirkland.

And, of course, it was that asshole's fault. Jones certainly hadn't wanted to do something as awkwardly unplatonic as _miss_ him, and hell, even the word miss seemed feminine, or was that just the other meaning for 'miss', he couldn't tell, and to be quite frank Jones was too hungover to really care. The point was that he missed Kirkland and if it was anyone's fault, it was Kirkland's own for making him actually think about it, and damn it if he wasn't going to have to deal with that at some point.

"I really hate you sometimes, y'know that?"

And it was like the sky opened up and a downpour came down on him because just seconds later a frustratingly familiar voice spoke over his communicator. It obviously hadn't picked up his words but for a second he was terrified that it had, even though he hadn't even said Kirkland's name.

It was obvious within seconds that that was not the case, however; Kirkland's voice came in loud and clear and irritated as always.

"I hear you skipped lunch," it said, sounding as if he was a doctor dealing with a stubborn kid who just refused to follow orders—except that it wasn't much of a metaphor since it was pretty much exactly what was going on. "It's either the end of the world or I have to do an exam to make sure nothing's been rattled loose in that thick head of yours," and he paused a second, "Or you'll let me into your stupid fucking room and eat what I've brought you."

"Option one," Jones replied with little more than a groan. "And keep your stupid food. You're the one that didn't hook me up to a hydrate IV."

"Not my fault that you wear undershirts tight enough to prevent me from rolling them up and finding a vein in your arm to stick the IV needle in," Kirkland snapped. "So let me in right the fuck now and you won't find all your records mysteriously plastered onto some unsavory site on the internet."

"You're an ass," Jones finally sighed, lessening the security restrictions on his room so that Kirkland could enter. And, lo and behold, on the tray he held there were actual hamburgers—real ones—and fries and if that was a shake, then Jones could just die and go to heaven because, damn, Kirkland bringing him food, and good food at that? Perfect.

Still, it was a little too fishy to be normal, and Jones warily eyed him, though he couldn't help but sneakily glance at the food on the tray.

"Are you going to eat this or not?" Kirkland finally sighed, that posh accent dissipating somewhat in frustration, not entirely going to a less stuffy accent, but he seemed to relax a little more regardless. "Look, it was a pain in the arse getting this cleared since it was for you and they've been told not to give you hamburgers at the mess hall, but—"

Jones perked up, and he couldn't help but laugh. "I know you were the one keeping me from getting hamburgers! They couldn't always be out!"

Apparently realizing that he'd said too much, Kirkland turned slightly red, stuttering and floundering for the proper insult. "It was for—It was for a good cause you git, and if you think for one second that just because you know I'll be stopping the restriction then you have another thing coming! It's in your best interest as captain if your arteries don't get harder than that thick head of yours so—so belt up." After taking one single breath, he continued, more to the point than before. "And besides, I'm getting you one now, aren't I? There's something excessively worrying about you skipping out on food to sulk in your quarters. It's—It's entirely unbecoming and…"

As Kirkland finally trailed off, Jones finally couldn't help but laugh, sitting back and clutching his sides to try to keep the noise level to a minimum, though that was hard with his rather boisterous natural laugh.

"It's—It's not a laughing matter, this is your health we're discussing—" Kirkland tried to interject, though even he seemed to realize that it was rather funny, and finally he let out a low chuckle, rolling his eyes at his captain's somewhat subpar humor, though he didn't seem to have much of a problem with it, really. "Alright, you've had your laugh. Now eat your lunch before everyone onboard yells at me for not doing this properly."

Jones managed to let his laughter die down a little, finally sitting forward and making grabby hands at the tray, which of course Kirkland couldn't refuse, though not without a mutter of "this child is my fucking captain?" and twitch of irritation that seemed somewhat ingenuine.

As Jones unwrapped the first sandwich and made fake-but-not-entirely-unconvincing orgasmic sounds, Kirkland simply watched him, raising a brow at the lack of manners. He didn't say anything to it, however, simply leaning over to rest his elbows on the counter intersecting the room, as if trying to get a better look at his captain.

Finally the captain in question finished the first sandwich and wiped away some of the mayo on the side of his mouth, popping his thumb into his mouth to get the mayo off of the digit. "See something you like?" he asked, only half sarcastic because damn, he honestly wasn't sure how to feel about Kirkland anymore. How was someone supposed to look their long-term friend and once-roommate after realizing, quite surprisingly, that they might—and it was _only_ a might—be gay for them?

"Nothing past the basics," Kirkland said, rolling his eyes at the behavior. "Now finish up. God knows you like those things too much to be normal. But if I hear your hamburger addiction's come back after this then don't blame me."

Jones laughed, starting on the second hamburger, occasionally glancing over to where Kirkland was still resting. He had half a mind to ask why the other was still here, but at the same time he knew that Kirkland would probably leave if he mentioned it, so instead the captain remained quiet, thoughtfully chewing on the somewhat overcooked meat.

Once he was finished, he of course moved on to the rest, obviously not going to let such a rare treat go to waste, and especially not when Kirkland himself had brought it. That didn't mean he wasn't still curious, though it was admittedly hard to think when he was focused more on the heavenly taste than anything else.

At length, Kirkland took Jones's tray and set it on the counter he'd been leaning against, leaving Jones to simply sip on his milkshake, occasionally making obnoxious noises with the straw just to see how much he could frustrate Kirkland in a short period of time. Eventually, though, Jones just leaned back, tossing a grateful smile at his medic in place of words, hoping that way he wouldn't have to explain himself.

It didn't entirely work.

While Jones's smile seemed to relax Kirkland a little—for reasons that he simply couldn't explain and didn't really want to—it didn't seem to deter him from asking, and after several moments of awkward tension, Kirkland crossed a little closer, leaning his shoulder against the a wall, facing Jones.

"So," he started, sounding perfectly conversational. "Want to explain why you're acting like a fucking prat?" Kirkland looked at him with something akin to amusement, raising one of those ridiculously thick brows at him. "Or are you just going to keep drinking that blasted milkshake and avoiding my question?"

Jones startled, blinking up at him behind the lenses of his glasses, letting out a slightly strained laugh, despite the loudness. "I'm sorry, could you repeat the question? I appear to have forgotten."

"Dammit, Jones," Kirkland snapped, sounding quite frustrated indeed. "The least you could do is pretend to be honest with me." A slow moment passed, and finally he kneaded his forehead, apparently trying to relax his brows, monsters that they were. In a calmer tone, he relented slightly, saying, "Come on, I don't play nice very often. Humor me."

Instead of outright replying, Jones just laughed a little more genuinely, leaning forward until he could lie on his stomach, propping his chin up on a fist, elbow dipping into the mattress. "You should play nice more often. Might make you more friends. You can never have enough friends, y'know," he offered sagely, seeming to really believe it.

"You're the equivalent of about fifteen friends. All the obnoxious sort," Kirkland retaliated, sounding almost genuinely irritated. However, the beginnings of a smile were starting to appear on his face, a clear relief to see Jones laughing. "Now. What had you so stressed? I'm a doctor, in case you've forgotten. I'm supposed to ensure that my patients are getting the proper treatment, and that's rather difficult when they won't tell me whether or not they're stressed."

Jones rolled his eyes. "I'm not stressed. Just thinkin' about stuff that I don't wanna think about. I'm not a huge fan of the whole, y'know. Gossip thing. I just don't wanna think about it. Not important anyways."

"Not important my arse. Now tell me what's going through that thick head of yours immediately," Kirkland prompted, raising a thick brow at his captain, obviously a little concerned. "Also—tell me any lies and you'll find that it's not entirely comfortable being strapped to a medical chair and being poked and prodded until I find exactly how many bloody things you're allergic to."

"So kind of you." Jones finally said, sitting forward with a sigh. Something a bit more genuine than the smiles he'd been flashing came onto his face, and if just for a moment, he looked breathtakingly honest. "Look, Limey. I hate to say it but I'm not one hundred percent sure I can say given the present company."

"I'm the only one here you twat," Kirkland snapped. "And if you mean there's honestly something that you can't tell me of all people, then go ahead—bottle it up. Or better yet how about you tell Kiku everything, mm? I'm sure he'd be so bloody fucking sympathetic."

Rolling his eyes at the abrupt increase in hostility—as well as the rapid decrease in sympathy; damn, was Kirkland even trying to be nice anymore?—Jones finally huffed, feeling a certain defensiveness resurface. "Look, Limey—"

"Stop calling me that, just because you thought it appropriate after sitting next to me on the recruiting ship doesn't mean that you can keep calling me it forever," Kirkland interrupted, looking quite irritated.

Jones glared at him for a minute, crossing his arms over his chest. "Limey, Limey, Limey. I'll say it again—Limey. It's my nickname for you and no one else can have it so I may as well use it, dammit."

Raising one of those impressive eyebrows, Kirkland seemed rather perplexed, though there was an amused smile on his face, plain as day. "You seem pretty possessive over that nickname, Jones. Any particular reason for it?"

Kirkland stepped forward, not hesitating before taking a seat next to Jones on the bed, honestly looking rather surprised, though pleasantly, as if Jones had said something of particular interest, aside from everything about the nickname. When the captain didn't immediately protest, his medic laughed, smile widening somewhat.

Instead of replying, Jones simply huffed and turned away, decidedly not making eye-contact even if he could sort of see Kirkland's reflection in the dark window he was facing.

As the silence swelled and the tension became thick enough to cut with a dull knife, Kirkland finally deemed it time to step in. "Y'know, I miss being able to call you Al," he finally commented. "And I think you sort of miss it too. Is that why you always call me Limey nowadays?"

Jones shook his head, distinctly remembering that he'd actually called Kirkland 'Artie' while he was drunk. "It's not always, and besides, so what if I do? The Academy was nice. Not as much resting on my shoulders, y'know?"

"You're feeling stressed, then," Kirkland commented, and damn it all if Jones wasn't completely pissed at him for missing the point and trying to treat this as some sort of psych evaluation. "So instead, you're trying to relive your academy days? Is that why out of the blue you're suddenly shutting me out? Because those two things don't really match up, y'know. You were always more open with me in our academy days. So unless you're just overcompensating—which is valid—I'm afraid I don't totally believe your story about being stressed."

"I never gave a story about being stressed," Jones said with a deep sigh, finally turning around to look Arthur in the eye, momentarily caught in emerald before he managed to look away.

"You implied it," the medic argued, rolling his eyes and scooting a bit closer. "Now tell me the truth."

There was a long pause, and finally, finally, there was the moment of truth.

"I think I'm gay."

And then of course there was a longer pause than before, as Kirkland scrutinized Jones as if the other had grown another head.

"Yes, and?" Kirkland asked, looking quite confused. "We discussed this a few days ago. Though personally I think you're bi, just jaded to relationships with girls due to your unfulfilling relationships with girls in the past—"

"Dammit, Arthur, stop trying to evaluate me! If you want me to talk, let me talk," Jones snapped, effectively cutting him off, a bad mood starting to resurface. It was evident that if Kirkland didn't take action soon, he'd go back to sulking and being just as unresponsive as before.

So of course Kirkland did the most logical thing he could think of:

He kissed him.

Jones let out a yelp, eyes widened in shock for a few seconds, looking almost livid for a moment, but gradually he came to realize that Kirkland was giving him exactly what he wanted, and how could he possibly protest it?

They kissed for a few minutes, neither really wanting to be the one to break it and to trigger the onslaught of questions afterwards, but finally Kirkland needed air again and he pulled back hesitantly, looking rather embarrassed.

"…So, ah, when you said you were gay… did you have anyone particular in mind?"

The way Jones threw a pillow at Kirkland seemed evidence enough, and the medic pulled his captain into his arms, laughing a little.

"Next time, just tell me, you idiot. I thought I'd made it obvious enough that I have a thing for you, but apparently not," Kirkland joked, gesturing for Jones to move over so they could lie down next to each other. "Come on, budge up. You've a hangover and it's my job as captain to ensure your safety." There was the hint of mischief in his eyes, though, and he couldn't help a smirk. "If that means staying in bed with you all day and all night if need be, so be it."

Jones glanced up at him, laughing a bit incredulously. After a minute or so he relaxed and scooted over, giving some of the area to his new medic-slash-partner-slash-something-or-another. "I think that's the smartest suggestion you've had all day."

"Then let's take advantage of it, mn?" the medic suggested, smirking a bit wider.

After leaning over to give Kirkland a firm kiss, Jones returned the smirk, though it was a bit softer at the edges. "At your service, Limey."

And the rest is, as they say, history.

* * *

"Captain's log, November of 2258," Jones begins loudly over the speakers, about a month after everything finally settled down between him and Kirkland. "We're not far from Romulan territory so be on your guard, alright? If anything looks amiss in your section of the Enterprise, you know who to call, so don't be shy about it." He pauses, glancing over to Kirkland, who's currently bending over a table, examining medical files. "We wouldn't want our dear Medical Officer to be inconvenienced by another patient, now would we?"

"You're an arse, Al," Kirkland snaps, not even looking up.

Jones laughs, and it's suddenly very obvious that he still has the speaker on. "Right—well, that concludes our log for the morning. If anything else pops up, I'll be sure to make another. Jones out."

And with that, he finally stops the transmission, glancing up at Kirkland with a grin.

"'If anything else pops up,' huh," Kirkland asks, meeting his eyes before rolling them, obviously nonplussed at his captain's morning announcement. "You did that on purpose."

Jones looks mock offended, batting those innocent eyes. "Of course not, Art. I'm insulted. I think you just have a dirty mind, babe."

Kirkland grunts with disapproval, finally snapping the last notebook shut. "Enough with the nicknames. None of them are going to fit—"

"You don't mind when I call you Limey." Jones stands, crossing easily to Kirkland and putting his arms around the medic's waist, kissing at his neck. He's quite thankful that the room is almost completely empty, otherwise he knows very well that he wouldn't get away with this. "I think you need to loosen up. Captain's orders."

"You're one to talk about actually listening to orders," Kirkland grinds out, though he seems unable to stay in a poor mood. "Now come along. I was promised a solid half-hour alone with you in your room."

Jones sighs then pats Kirkland's cheek rather affectionately. "Limey, Limey, Limey. When will you learn? Say the word and you'll have my room and me all to yourself for a _full_ hour, and I'll even throw in a good meal. What do you say?"

"I'd say that we shouldn't put that hour to waste," Kirkland agrees with a smirk, pulling Jones by the collar into a kiss. "Impatient yank, aren't you?"

"Only because I know you're holdin' out on me, gorgeous. Now, are we gonna relax on that big ol' bed of mine and get our free time in, or are we just gonna talk about it?" the captain asks, pulling away and tugging on his medic's hand, leading him to the elevator.

Kirkland rolls his eyes again, and Jones pecks him on the cheek, but the moment the doors close, it's just Arthur and Alfred, and a whole mess of kisses, affection and something quite close to love.

And really, Alfred F. Jones doesn't have a problem anymore—only a world of solutions, and Arthur Kirkland seems to be the answer to about half.


End file.
